


Bianca, You Minx

by KyeShgall



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drama, F/F, F/M, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-07-29
Updated: 2011-08-15
Packaged: 2017-10-21 22:26:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 9,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/230534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyeShgall/pseuds/KyeShgall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Updated author's note only: This piece will not be finished. It has been too long and I am not the same writer I was when I began this. Apologies) AU fic based on the kinkmeme prompt that Bianca the crossbow is actually a woman turned into a crossbow. Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Age or its characters--that would be Bioware--and of course I make no profits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hawke

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: I struggle with whether or not to take this down. I would not write a fic like this today, but I think it's important to show the ugly places where I've come from. I am not proud of the ugly tropes and stereotypes I can see in myself. I am not proud of the hurtful ways I use and have used words. I want to be better and do better, but things like shaming sexuality for supposed humor, bisexual stereotyping, depicting non-monogamous choices for the sake of supposed humor, these are things I have done in my writing. Hiding from them, pretending they never happened, that isn't okay with me. 
> 
> \--------
> 
> Previous author's note: Hi, potential readers. Writer here. I'm just gonna go ahead and encourage you not to read this. I'm not going to finish it. I've been avoiding it for a while, but I don't really want to avoid addressing why anymore. It's a piece whose intended humor is based largely on the ridicule of characters' sexuality (Hawke and Isabela). And I don't like that. One of the larger overall points, had I finished this piece, was always going to be that no matter one's sexual choices, communication with all involved partners is critical. But another large overall point was writing for humor's sake. And the humor I tried to write here feels really ugly to me. 
> 
> I've been thinking about this more and more since reading several online conversations about fandom judgment/ridicule of characters' sexuality in the DA-verse. This is personally important to me. I'm a woman who has been judged, criticized, and shamed by others many times in my life for my sexual choices. I know I don't want to contribute to that dynamic in a fandom. I do believe that the way I treat a fictional character in my writing says something about who I am as a person. And what this piece here says to me is that I can be a hurtful shit when I'm trying to garner a laugh or two. 
> 
> So I'm going to look at lot more carefully at my writing choices. That's really all I can do.

For the first time since all his difficulties had started, Garrett Hawke had come up with an idea. And not just any idea. Oh no, this… THIS… was a potentially good one. A good one that involved sex. And other people having it. With each other. Not with him.

And then maybe they’d stop stealing all his red fucking scarves for one day out of the whole bloody year.

Shit. It’s not like he was made of red fucking scarves. They actually cost money. Real money. Like sovereigns and that. Not that his friends knew anything about real money. Oh no, they never paid for anything. They just went ahead and lifted whatever they wanted from their dear old Champion of Kirkwall’s very expensive Hightown mansion.

Maker Almighty, it wasn’t Hawke’s fault he’d slept with five of them. Sebastian claimed it was four, but Hawke knew better. Not even a beaded, feathered mask at a costume party could hide that sexy Starkhaven brogue. Oh, yes, it had been five. And it certainly would have been six if it weren’t for the machinations of that selfish bastard Donnic.

Well, whatever. Hawke hadn’t much wanted Aveline anyway.

So. Getting back to the matter at hand. The important part was that Hawke had been thinking about this all day. Literally. All day. It had been like the third thought that hit his brain right after he’d woken up and pulled on a pair of (mostly) clean trousers.

First Thought: Are they clean enough?  
Hawke: I dunno, smell them.  
First Thought: Yeah, okay, they’re not, but… whatcha gonna do?

Then he’d checked his bed.

Second Thought: It’s empty?  
Hawke: Does that mean I didn’t fuck anyone last night? Or...  
Second Thought: Shit! Lost another fucking red scarf.

It had to stop. And by that he meant not just this business with the scarves and the stealing, but also the whispered ‘I love yous’ at the moment of climax and the feverish, nonsensical need to declare themselves his One True Partner or whatever the Fade that stupid acronym stood for.

They weren’t. None of them. Because a Hawke was a creature that needed freedom. And a confined Hawke was liable to sink its talons deep and leave its bloody mark behind. And Garrett didn’t want that to happen. Not to his friends. They were good people. Mostly. Except for the stealing. Hurting any one of them would be tragic. Hurting all of them at once would be… possibly a bit dicey as far as Hawke’s bodily integrity was concerned. (And integrity of any sort was something Garrett Hawke had no interest whatsoever in wasting two thoughts on.)

So, yeah. Plan needed. Fast. Because he was running out of fucking scarves. And he was pretty damn sure that those were the only things keeping the peace lately.

Thank the Maker for Varric, really. Because what, honestly, was more useful than a sexually frustrated best friend for a poor Champion stuck in a situation like this? Absolutely nothing, that’s what.

And herein lay the essence of Garrett Hawke’s brilliant plan.

Varric. Was going to fuck. Absolutely. All of them.

And (somehow) that would make things better.

For Hawke.

Probably not for Varric.

But that wasn’t important. The important thing was friends helping friends.


	2. Varric

Hawke was a good friend, no doubt about that. Even better, his life story to date was so engaging it fulfilled just about every wild biographical fantasy Varric had ever conjured. There was, of course, a downside, but that was entirely expected and eminently reasonable. Flawless heroes were never much fun. Unfortunately for Hawke’s friends, however, some of the same traits—the knack for self-preservation, dogged persistence against all odds, and penchant for issuing inconvenient demands—that gave him such fierce and unrelenting prowess in the face of an enemy also made him… well, to put it bluntly, sort of an asshole. Sometimes.

And wasn’t it just Varric's lucky day? Because right now, Hawke was in rare form. Oh, yeah, Kirkwall’s champion was just ripe with the bouquet of some well-rounded, full-bodied, grade-A, vintage asshole. With a bit of paranoia mixed in. You know, just for kicks. What that meant in specific detail was that Hawke was completely fixated on some figmentary conspiracy theory: “They love me and they’re stealing my scarves.”

Yeah, sure they are. Whatever you say, Champ.

“Please, Varric,” Hawke whined. “You can’t say no to this. It’s for the greater good.”

Ah, yes, the greater good of Hawke, a man whose wily, wily ways were teetering on the brink of madness more and more each passing day.

What Varric actually said was far more politic. “Allow me to point out that by bringing up this topic you are acting in direct violation of our gentlemen’s agreement.”

“Shit,” said Hawke. “Are you sure?”

Varric was sure. And this was more than mere wordplay. Their agreement from several weeks ago had been a matter of fierce negotiation, but in the end, Varric had gotten his way. Call it a perk of writing a man’s biography. It made blackmail so easy it almost lost its fun. (The key word, of course, being ‘almost.’)

“But no,” Hawke said. “This is different. Because this time I’m not propositioning you. And I’m certainly not talking about what you were doing—er, what I… walked in on.”

“Gentlemen’s agreement,” Varric repeated. “Clearly defining certain topics of conversation as completely off-limits. Any discussion involving an orgy, my good man, is in direct violation of that mandate.”

“No, I’m not asking for an orgy,” said Hawke. “Just that you… do what I do.”

“Which is?”

“Each of them,” said Hawke. “One by one. You know, separately or… however you like, really.”

“Not happening,” Varric said.

“Oh, come on,” Hawke said. “Agreement or no, you of all men could use a little more action, don’t you think?”

“And _what_ is that supposed to mean?” Varric asked.

“It means that what I saw…”

Eyebrow raised, Varric shot him a look of warning. Or perhaps it was a dare: _Yeah, sure, go right ahead. Keep talking. See where that gets you._

“Shit,” said Hawke. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Varric, you were _fucking your crossbow_.”

“Get. Out.” Varric was quiet, his voice deliberate, uncompromising.

“Look, I’m just saying…” Hawke began.

“Out.” Varric repeated, louder this time, but still unflustered.

“…not that it’s weird…” Hawke added.

Varric shook his head, slow and resolute. He did not wish to continue this conversation.

“I’m not judging…”

“Hawke.” The word was a warning.

“…just suggesting…”

“I will only say it once,” said Varric.

“…other outlets _are_ available…”

“Go.” Varric pushed him backwards and the momentum was enough to send Hawke stumbling through the doorway as Varric shut the door and bolted it.

A necessary move. Because Varric didn’t have the heart for this conversation. Not today. Shit, not ever. And maybe that was the problem. He never wanted to explain. But then, he’d learned long ago not to bother. A series of awkward experiences—though possibly not quite as awkward as what Hawke had walked in on—had taught Varric that as soon as he said the words “my crossbow really is my girlfriend” aloud to an audience, any subsequent explanation of foul play and mysterious curses was doomed to go unheard, lost amidst polite but nervous smiles, the frantic shuffle of retreating footfalls, and the whispered chorus of words like “crazy shit” and “absolutely barking.”

So, yeah. Good times.


	3. Bianca

Bianca heaved a weary sigh, which of course went unheard. But voicelessness was the least of her problems. The lack of beautiful, deft hands complete with a full set of grabby fingers was top of her troubles today. Because there was nothing she wanted to do to Garrett Hawke more than to grab his sorry nuts and, with a yank and a twist, let him know in no uncertain terms that he really did need to stop harassing her man.

Not that Varric couldn’t handle himself. Of course he could. And he’d been nothing but admirable in his faithful wonderfulness for all these years. But she also knew how much he liked it when she chose the chivalrous route. Never had she known a man more delighted than he to see his lady love step up in defense of his honor or safety. So charming. And it meant the world to her, the sweetest reminder that her one true love was eminently secure in his manhood.

Unlike, say, a certain friend named Hawke who really needed to get his shit together.

And if having his balls twisted good and hard until he howled in agony didn’t help him in the shit-organizing department, it might, at the very least, put him out of sexual commission for a good few days. And that would be a blessed thing indeed. Because over the past few months Hawke’s ill-channeled sex drive had been tearing apart long-standing friendships faster than Knight-Commander Meredith could tear through the wrapping paper on a box marked, “Very important blood mage accoutrements contained herein.”

Hmmm. Now that could work. And perhaps a note inside the box should say, “We’ll stamp them out together, my love. Yours truly, First Enchanter Orsino. Sealed with the undying spirit of all my kisses.” Because wouldn’t it be hilarious to try and get those two into bed together? Of course, templars were notoriously tricky, what with their perversely misguided ideas about blue balls leading to virtue. And Meredith’s balls were probably bluer than most. But still, it had to be worth a try, if only for a laugh.

Rivaini would totally do it, too, given the right amount of manipulative prompting.

Right. Well. Add that to the list.

Things To Do With Balls If I Ever Stop Being a Crossbow

1) Suck Varric’s  
2) Twist Hawke’s   
3) Cure Meredith’s blue ones

Ugh. So many reasons life as a piece of weaponry was damned inconvenient.

Of course, it wasn’t all bad. In fact, it was about to get pretty good right now. Because Varric was lifting her in those in strong but gentle hands she loved so well and without even the most miniscule of jostles, he had shifted her weight to cradle her against his chest as he cleared a place on the table and set her down.

 _That’s right, sweetheart. You go get the oil. I’ll just sit right here._

He returned with a little bottle, uncorked it, and set to work. Oh, Ancestors, his hands felt divine as they slid along the length of her wood. And damn it all if he wasn’t thorough. But the best part was yet to come. After he’d rubbed her till she gleamed, he set the oil aside and then he pulled her, splaying her open before him.

 _Ohhh. Yesss._

His deft fingers slid to her trigger, teasing and caressing. And as much as she wanted it right now, good and hard, she loved it more when he made a game of it, drawing it out sweet and slow. He would pull away from her sensitive trigger, choosing instead to run both hands along her body as he pulled her again into his arms, cradling her against him, pressing himself closer, kissing and sucking.

And she knew (because he’d whispered it so many times before) that when he held her against his skin and slid his hard cock up and through the handle of her trigger, she didn’t feel like a crossbow anymore. Whether it really was some trick of the magic that bound her or just her lover being kind, she’d probably never know. But if it was an act, he made it a damn convincing one. Even after all these years, when he opened his eyes again, his wet love spent and her trigger pulled, his first look was always one of surprise—as if he really had been convinced that this time, for real, she’d been turned into his girl again.

What would have broken her heart—if she had one—was the flash of disappointment that inevitably followed.

Bianca the fucking crossbow.


	4. Hawke

So, in case anyone wanted to know…

Or else, maybe just for the record then. Blood mages? Crazy ones with face tattoos and bizarre little pom-poms on their hats? Yeah. Not part of the plan.

But that didn’t ever stop blood mages, did it? No. Blood mages didn’t care enough about Kirkwall to bother consulting anyone’s plans, never mind the well-crafted ones dreamt up by their very own local Champion. Blood mages, in general, were all about breaking plans. Crashing parties. Quite possibly killing kittens. And _these_ blood mages, in particular, were at this very moment rolling back sleeves, pulling out fancy little knives, and looking at the flesh of their own forearms like it was a bit of tasty roast to slash right into.

Merrill wasn’t so bad, of course. And that ticklish bit she did with the magic lightning to the balls was bloody fantastic. If a little scary.

But Merrill wasn’t here, was she? No. None of his mages were. And he only had three of them, which was hardly enough to begin with. Even less than enough given the fact that one of them—his virginal sister—was either dead or sent to the Circle or possibly’d run off with the Grey Wardens (Hawke could never remember which). And the other two were far too busy moping over stolen scarves to be bothered helping their Champion out of a tight spot.

There was loyalty for you.

He didn’t even have Fenris’ fine sword standing stark and naked, ever ready to plunge into quivering manflesh. (Oh, Maker, yes please.) Because Fenris was also too busy ~~moping~~ drinking while nursing a jealous grudge directed against both of Hawke’s mages.

Fine.

Where, then, was the beautiful pirate muse of the battlefield? Not actually on the battlefield, was she? No. She was, instead, drunk off her ass, bleary-eyed, locked in argument with Edwina over how much rat flesh the average Hanged Man-sized pot of stew could hide before the regulars started complaining that the meat was far too greasy and tasted strange.

Shit.

That left him with Varric “Fucker of Crossbows” Tethras, Aveline “Shut Up, You” Vallen, and Sebastian “By Andraste, No, Hawke, I Didn’t Fuck You At That Party” Vael. What a fucking collection of heroes this was shaping up to be.

And the only one Hawke had actually wanted to talk to was the bloody dwarf. Instead here they all were—a couple of guys with bows, a couple of guys (sorry, Aveline) with big swords—fighting it out against a weird bunch of gents in evening attire who all at once started hacking away at themselves with those creepy little knives.

Double shit.

But wouldn’t you know it, his team came through? Aveline rushed in, bashed through the front lines setting mages twirling with little stars above their heads, then stepped back quick so as not to get speared as Varric’s crazy death contraption unleashed a rain of like forty-five bolts all at fucking once. That had to be impossible. (Right?) But it always seemed to work somehow.

And then there was nancy-pants Sebastian, mincing about shooting neat little arrows all through the second round of blood mages… who must have been hiding (invisible or folded up like little strings in some crazy other dimensions or something) and only just now decided to appear.

Neat trick. Too bad they were dead.

There was only one mage left, actually. And he was all Hawke’s. Garrett raised his sword and, stepping forward, readied himself for the final kill—

—that Varric swiftly stole from him with a triple burst of his crossbow. With a gasp and a gurgle, the mage fell dead. But if Hawke had hoped for deathly silence in the wake of actual physical death… well, he wasn’t going to get it, was he?

No.

Because as soon as corpse hit pavers, Hawke’s ears were filled with the ecstatic cries of some crazed woman who sounded more or less like she’d just reached the height of a really fantastic orgasm. She also sounded shockingly nearby. As in, right behind him. Naked. Dark-haired. Beautiful. And, unfortunately, pressed up against Varric. Whose right hand was… caught… in such a manner that it appeared to be the cause of those ecstatic cries previously mentioned.

“Oh!” she whimpered, still lost to pleasure. “Yes! Rhyming triplet… every… fucking… time!”


	5. Aveline

Aveline blinked.

She looked down at the body of the dead mage, limbs splayed, dispossessed eyes still wide with the shock of an unexpected hit. Utterly dead. She looked up again, her gaze shifting to the very much alive body of the woman whose pert, round, and naked breasts were currently making their intimate acquaintance with Varric’s chest hair. The woman had at last stopped shrieking like the two-bit whore she probably was. Now she was simply staring at Varric, who stared back for what seemed like an age. Then he whispered something Aveline couldn’t hear before he drew the woman into his arms and kissed her square on the mouth. And, wouldn’t you know it, the woman not only returned his kiss, but also lifted one of her legs, wrapping it around him to draw him even closer to her nakedness.

Well.

All right then.

Time to search some corpses.

What else was there to do? Neither whore nor Varric seemed likely to stop pawing each in the next moment or so. And the role of Idiotic Human Gawker was already being filled twice over. So Aveline wrote up a mental citation, filed it safely (to be issued later in paper copy), and walked away from the spectacle of frisky dwarves engaged in acts of public indecency.

She planned on a quick check of all remaining bodies—most of which had already reached the sparkly pile stage of their magical decomposition—before they disappeared completely. She didn’t expect much: some coins, a couple of potions, a ring perhaps. What she didn’t count on was that one of the sparkly piles would look particularly inviting… almost as if it had a big marker arrow floating over it. Which of course it didn’t. That would have been absurd.

Almost as absurd as a blood mage apostate carrying a note that read, “They’ll never find my extra-secret hideout, which is located in the fifth abandoned warehouse on the left as you enter the docks.” And in case that was still unclear a little map of the docks had been sketched on back with a letter ‘x’ to mark the proper door.

“Hawke,” she said. “You’ll want to come take a look at this.” Still kneeling to sift through the piley remains of their final enemy, Aveline held aloft the note, a little flag to catch the Champion’s eye. When moments passed and nothing happened, the note remaining firmly in her possession, she looked up sharply. “Hawke?” she said, then seeing the idiotic love struck look on his face as he watched the dwarf whore saunter towards him, she muttered, “Oh, bollocks. Not another one.”

But no. The nude woman, her lovely face lit by an enormous smile, was not actually heading towards Hawke, but straight past him, sparing naught but an annoyed glance in his direction. If that.

Aveline stood up. The woman was actually approaching _her_ and she wasn’t sure what was going to happen next. Hopefully not a kiss. (It would drain all the joy from at last issuing a citation to Varric if she also had to cite herself as part of the same incident.)

“Just stay back,” said Aveline, raising one hand in a halting gesture.

But the whore paid no heed. “Aveline!” she announced and then, launching every bit of her naked self at the guard captain, she pulled the taller woman into a firm embrace. “Congratulations!”

“Er,” said Aveline as she struggled to pry the dwarf off of her. In retrospect, she realized that her first question really should have been ‘Do I know you?’ rather than “For what?”

“For getting married, of course,” said the woman, thankfully breaking the tenacious hug of her own accord.

“That was… nearly two years ago,” Aveline sputtered.

“I know,” the woman said, “and for two years I’ve been dying to tell you how much I appreciated the apt hilarity of your wedding vows. When you took up the _solemn mantle of marital duty_ , I didn’t think it could get any more priceless, but then Donnic went right ahead and pledged his _eternal fealty_. Oh, I tell you, Aveline, if crossbows could roll in the aisles with laughter—”

“Crossbows?” Aveline asked. “You’re not…” She looked to Varric, who had approached, weaponless, his expression lit with a tender smile. She looked back to the woman.

Aveline blinked again.

Well, this was just perfect, wasn’t it? Even the weaponry had smart remarks about her wedding day.


	6. Varric

If Varric were to be completely honest (though why he’d want to be that, he couldn’t quite fathom), he’d have to admit that he’d given up on mages a long time ago. Oh, sure, he’d always known there was some pernicious spell at work, but when not even one blathering magical smartass among the roughly fifty he’d consulted had been able to give him anything resembling a helpful answer he’d eventually decided, “You know what, screw it. I’m through with this shit.” Not exactly an elegant declaration, but a satisfying one. Even more so for having been timed perfectly with the act of snatching Bianca from the arthritic clutches of the particularly self-congratulatory robed idiot who’d been _handling_ her.

Varric had taken her home, which was just where she belonged, and they’d continued their relationship as if nothing had happened.

Except for that one thing.

The woman who would have become his wife and perhaps even borne his children had instead become his crossbow. And in that guise she’d borne only death. An ominous change, no doubt. And though he’d learned pretty quickly that thinking too much on it was a bad idea, the thoughts were damn insidious, always slithering around some dark corner of mind with their fangs drawn, as if to remind him that for all the influence he wielded in Kirkwall, he still didn’t know shit about the big stuff.

Yeah, maybe not. But Varric had no intention of ever admitting defeat. Sure, he’d given up on mages, but he hadn’t given up on Bianca. The best woman he’d ever known had simply become the best weapon a man could hope for. Despite the change of aspect, she’d never stopped being his girl.

The whole _magic sex_ thing may have helped a bit in that department. Granted, it was also weird, possibly a little creepy, and—once Hawke had found out—extremely embarrassing. But, yeah, still great. And, all sex aside, she was also a damn fine piece of weaponry. Or, at least, she had been.

Tonight, with the spell broken, Varric was weaponless, standing in the Hightown square more naked without his crossbow than his literally naked lover. (Whose sweet, slick little cunt had been clenched around his trigger finger. Now _that_ was hot.) And though it took him a while—because coherent thought had gone a little shaky at that point—he’d eventually found sense enough to doff his coat and slip it around Bianca’s bare shoulders, vaguely aware that keeping her warm wasn’t the only objective that counted.

There was a Hawke nearby. And it had appetites.

Of course, Hawke wasn’t quite himself at the moment. The shock of Bianca’s transformation seemed to have rendered him, if not exactly speechless, then at least less chatty than usual. Even his lecherous leering was more subdued.

Aveline, too, was affected. Despite her well-polished sense of duty, she readily agreed that heading to the docks to clean out a nest of blood mages was best left for another day. That was a relief, because the kind of cleaning they typically performed required an awful lot of heavy weapons, and Bianca’s metamorphosis had left Varric with all of one smallish knife. (A shitty contingency plan, no doubt, but then, he hadn’t ever expected to lose his crossbow mid-campaign.)

So instead of a creepy warehouse, their destination was the tipsy glow of the Hanged Man’s warm bosom. Aveline insisted that she and Hawke guide the two dwarves safely home. And tonight, with Bianca to hold his hand, Varric was undaunted. Not even a pair of mismatched human chaperones—one, the embodiment of chivalry, the other, its opposite—was enough to dampen his spirit.

Shit, he didn’t even get annoyed when, passing the empty stalls of the Lowtown market, Hawke at last found his tongue and realized it hadn’t been wagging enough lately. “Matching earrings, Varric? Really? Whose cute idea was that? Yours or hers?”

(It had been Bianca’s, for the record. Proving that, yes, even the best of relationships required the art of compromise.)

To be honest, Varric wasn’t paying much attention at all to his neediest friend. Instead, he was focused on Bianca. And rightly so. He’d been holding her hand the whole way home, squeezing it from time to time, and every time she squeezed right back, his heart swelled to near bursting in silent joy. He absolutely couldn’t wait to get her back to his suite. Because when at last they were alone with the door shut to keep out the riffraff, Varric would indulge in the one unfulfilled desire that had been driving him crazy with want for all the long years his lover had been a crossbow.

He’d pour Bianca a tall glass of water, sit her down at his table, and ask her to _talk_ to him.

Too long he had ached for her words, her thoughts, her laughter. And damn it all, if he had his way with her tonight, come morning her voice would be worn absolutely ragged.

And then he would fuck her raw.

Just the way she liked it.


	7. Hawke

So. A bit of time on his hands then. Right. Well. Crying shame he hadn’t thought to bring a deck of cards up with.

But then, he hadn’t expected _this_ , had he? No, indeed. _This_ … depressing spectacle was clearly not the glorious end for which he’d climbed the blighted scaffolding outside the back of the Hanged Man. At night. And as if that weren’t enough manly fortitude and courageous daring right there, he’d then gone right ahead, nimble as you please, and shimmied his lithe, handsome body along a set of highly dangerous ledges.

Highly. Dangerous.

Is what sort of ledges they were. In case that point hadn’t quite settled.

So, yeah. Here he was. Champion of Kirkwall. Perched way up in one of Varric’s blighted windows with a sheer drop to the streets of Lowtown on one side and a couple of loquacious fucking dwarves on the other.

Not _literally_ fucking, though. That was, in fact, the heart of the blighted problem.

They’d been doing naught but _talking_ to each other. And, by Hawke’s reckoning, the conversation had gone on for well past long enough. Because, at this point, they were on to the really fucking stupid questions, weren’t they?

Honestly. Did anyone really wonder what the crossbow-turned-gorgeous-dwarf-girl could possibly’ve been thinking at the moment everybody’s favorite rat bastard Bartrand had left them all to die in the Deep Roads?

Honestly? Same fucking thing everyone else was thinking. _Get back here, you little weasel. Looks like you dropped something pretty fucking important in your haste to stab us all in the back, yeah? Little piece of death is what it looks like. And it’s got your fucking name on it._

See. Not so hard. Answers aplenty. Questions need not apply.

Of course, Varric didn’t seem to think so. Apparently, Varric wanted to hear every little thought the gorgeous dwarf girl could possibly muster regarding nearly a decade of street fights and lucrative shady business ventures. Every. Little. Thought. Now, seriously, Hawke had figured out pretty early on in their partnership that the man had issues. But this? This was sheer insanity.

The facts were pretty clear, after all. Pair of dwarves. Clearly involved with each other. One of whom was a handsome fellow. Sexy voice. Bit of a clever bastard. _Very_ nicely endowed. (Hawke had learned that last bit thanks to the whole crossbow incident from weeks prior.) The other of whom was a ravishing little beauty with a quirky little smile and a very fine set of tits indeed. Probably a wild one in the sack, too. So why on earth would something as boring and easily preventable as _conversation_ be potent enough to keep Varric’s little dwarf from venturing forth with all due haste into _her_ deep roads?

It didn’t make sense. Not. One. Tainted. Lick. (None of that happening at the moment, either, sadly.)

Hawke was starting to wish he hadn’t climbed the blighted scaffolding, after all. Instead he could’ve taken his bite of humble pie and apologized to Isabela for something or other he’d said wrong or hadn’t said right. Or whatever. If he’d done that, then by now he’d be munching on more pie than just the humble variety. That was certain. And wouldn’t that have been nice? But, no. Instead of that brilliant plan, he’d thrown in his lot with a sodding pair of dwarves. And a fat lot of good _that_ had done. All his grand plans for a fine night of voyeurism and wanking had degenerated into… well, _eavesdropping_.

Wanking, too, probably.

But not at the moment. Hawke was still holding out hope that all this talk might yet take a turn for the naked and dirty. Because there was nothing he wanted to watch more than Varric drilling that woman hard. The most glorious thing about that hope (if anyone cared to know) was that Hawke wasn’t entirely sure which of them he’d imagine himself in place of. Being fucked by Varric? _Oh, yes please._ Sliding his hard cock deep into that beautiful dark-eyed fox of a former crossbow? _Yes, please_ to that, too.

Hmm. Now there was a thought.

Perhaps he could talk them into a three-way. If he played his cards right.


	8. Bianca

Bianca hadn’t taken her eyes off her man since he’d shut the door of his suite behind them. She hadn’t stopped touching him either. Little touches. A soft caress to the forearm here, a squeeze to the mid-thigh there. It was all very sweet. And romantic. But it certainly wasn’t the sucking kisses that she’d been envisioning with a growing sense of urgency as the night wore on.

After all these years of silence, there was a lot to talk about. And she was so pleased to tell him absolutely everything. But by daybreak, Bianca had already given her lover more words than she’d thought she’d had in her. She was weary. Exhausted even. But none of that made her any less ready to renew the physical aspect of their mutual appreciation. No excuses. It was time for Varric to put his cock where her mouth was.

Of course, there was one minor inconvenience to attend to first.

Hawke.

He was sleeping on the window ledge with his face pressed against the wall, his mouth hanging open as he snored. Rather loudly. And as foolhardy and infuriating as the man could be, Bianca had not devoted the past seven years of her life to helping keep Garrett Hawke alive through all manner of spiky, fiery, magical doom only to see him fall a couple of stories to his death when his latest misguided attempt at masturbatory adventure didn’t pan out.

So Varric went to find a ladder. And that was one of the beautiful things about Varric. He always took care of his people. What a sweetheart. What a man.

And, in contrast, there was Hawke, waking in a state of confusion and groggily descending the ladder only to shrug off Varric’s restraining hand in order to approach Bianca. “You do realize you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he said.

Charming.

The poor fool probably thought he was about to talk himself into a three-way.

Ugh. If he weren’t such a good friend, she would definitely have tried to twist his balls off by now. Even as his friend, she had to admit, the prospect of rendering Hawke unable to procreate was sorely tempting.

But that wouldn’t have been truly fair. Because life was all about lessons. Often they were the stupid, nonsensical, Blight-take-your-Ancestors variety, but lessons, nonetheless. Though Bianca wasn’t entirely clear on what she was supposed to have learned by being a crossbow for years on end, she was fairly certain it would turn out to be either:

1) Enormously Profound; or   
2) Profoundly Stupid.

And if all her good sense had her leaning towards the latter, well, no worries. She was at least hoping it might turn out to be the former.

And, yes, she had learned plenty in the years she’d been forced to watch and listen, biding her silence and attempting not to lose hold of all her brilliant potential. For example, she’d learned that life was full of opportunities parading around in careful disguise. The trick was to unmask them before the party ended. Fail to do that and you just might miss your chance forever—like Hawke with Sebastian.

She’d also learned (thanks, Varric) that the power of love was immense. Rivaled only by the power of greed. Most people embodied some mix of each. Fortunately, the conflict between the two opposing forces was often mediated by the power of incredible stupidity. A bit of dumb luck could go a long way. In fact, she was pretty sure that the better part of heroics was nothing but that and a good storyteller to smooth out the details.

If her strange musings really were of the Enormously Profound variety, then perhaps in the guise of stupidity, opportunity waited. Perhaps a bit of dumb luck could tip Kirkwall’s status quo away from greed and towards love just enough to prevent—or at least forestall—its next fiery uprising.

Of course, it was more likely that she was just being Profoundly Stupid.

Either way, she was pretty sure that castration—although it was one possible solution to Hawke’s problem—was not really the lesson he most needed to learn at this point in life. So Bianca stayed her hand. She sent Hawke away, not with bodily injury, but with a task to accomplish.


	9. Isabela

Isabela woke to what she first thought was a demonically loud bit of carpentry taking place somewhere shockingly nearby, but which gradually resolved itself into nothing more than a wickedly pounding headache. It took her a moment to realize that the grimy patch of floor she lay on did not pertain to her own room; rather, it belonged to the decidedly public hallway outside Martin’s rooms at the Hanged Man.

Oh. Right. Because she’d been arguing with Martin about something terribly important. Something to do with the sheer improbability of any normal person surviving an ear-to-ear throat-slitting encounter that ended, not with an immediate draft of healing potion, but with being tossed overboard and drowned a bit before washing ashore half a day later. She _might_ have suggested that some manner of foul magic had to have been involved in his seemingly miraculous recovery against all reasonable odds. And he might have taken offense at this before he kicked her quite unceremoniously out of his quarters.

And that was all right, actually. Isabela wasn’t angry at Martin. Nor at Edwina nor Corff nor any of the other poor sods she’d been picking fights with yesterday evening. No, those poor fools weren’t the problem. In point of fact, there was no problem.

Garrett Hawke could kiss her grandmother’s shriveled ass for all she cared.

Possessiveness was not and never had been _her thing_. So, clearly, if she was jealous of anything, it was _not_ that Hawke spent so much time basking in the embrace of his myriad lovers. No, never that. The more likely possibility was that she was jealous because he’d been spending comparatively _more_ time with other lovers than she had. Simply put, Garrett Hawke was out-playing her. Even Aveline had stopped calling Isabela ‘whore’ lately, choosing instead to bestow that dreadful moniker upon Hawke—who was clearly trying to ruin Isabela’s reputation.

But rather than shrugging it off and resuming her business as usual, Isabela had made one ill-fated decision that had set her on a course of reacting to Hawke’s every move: she’d stolen one of his blighted red scarves. The first one, actually. The one he’d purchased as a gift for Fenris. She’d taken it and hidden it where it would never, ever be found (buried under the seven-year-old detritus that littered the floors, shelves, and cupboards of Fenris’ mansion, ironically enough). And then she’d stolen the second scarf. And the third and fourth ones. Hawke then successfully bestowed the fifth one upon his hygienically disinclined elf. So she’d stolen that one directly from Fenris. And so on. Eventually, Hawke had started giving out red scarves left and right to all his current and potential lovers in hopes that the stealing would stop.

It seemed to be driving him a bit frantic, which was a small achievement. But not a victory. Because she was still _re_ acting to Hawke rather than acting on her own independent desires. And the scarves weren’t the only symptom.

Every night that Hawke chose Fenris over her, Isabela was inevitably driven to seek the company of some other elven man, as if to even the score. Lacking a suitable male elf, she was quite willing to settle for a fearsome male warrior of any race. Or any man with a grudge—real or fabricated—against mages.

All of those things counted.

When Hawke chose Merrill, Isabela chose an elven woman. Or a petite human woman. Or someone with brown hair. Or anyone, male or female, who looked a bit lost. And, lastly, when Hawke was with Anders, Isabela spent her nights in the arms of a tall, blond human man. Or a mage. Or anyone willing to don a gown and refer to him- or herself as ‘Justice and I’ for the duration of their sexual encounter. (The Anders nights were definitely the most fun.)

She did not believe that Hawke had ever been to bed with Sebastian. Nor did she believe that he’d walked in on Varric making love to his crossbow. So those things did not need to be matched with equivalent sexual achievements. Which was fortunate. Because although she could undoubtedly seduce a Chantry initiate (or someone willing to dress up like one) without much difficulty, Isabela was pretty sure that Varric would murder her in cold blood if he ever found out she’d gone and hired some poor dwarf to masturbate for her with any sort of projectile-shooting weapon (beyond what the Maker had given him) as a sexual prop.

For that reason, it was to Isabela’s great surprise that, as she passed by Varric’s rooms on her way down for a good, greasy midmorning breakfast, she heard Varric cry out, “Bianca, you minx!” Although the words were the same as those he often uttered in the heat of battle, his tone of voice was different, marked not by his exuberance at the defeat of a worthy enemy, but by nothing short of feral, masculine lust.

And since that was one of Isabela’s very favorite sorts of lust, she swiftly overruled the will of her pounding headache and her empty stomach alike and decided to investigate further. Fortunately, she always carried at least one lock pick on her person and she was very good at making use of it quickly and quietly. In the time it took Varric to utter, “Oh, Ancestors, Bianca, I can’t believe I forgot how exquisite you taste,” the door was unlocked and swinging wide. And Isabela was staring directly into the beautiful moon of Varric’s naked ass. (Which, as it turned out, was only slightly more hairy than that of the typical male. So she’d lost an old bet to Bethany right there. Good thing the girl was locked away or dead or had run off with some handsome mustachioed fellow in the Grey Wardens.)

Varric was perched on top of his table, which—judging by the pile on the floor—had been rather hastily cleared of all its lamps and implements and other decorations. He was also perched on top of a dark-haired dwarven woman, who was reaching up to caress his balls as her mouth and tongue worked the entire length of his fully erect (and rather impressive) male member. Clearly, Varric was returning the favor, rewarding the young woman with a bit of oral action to her own slick naughty bits.

Ah, yes. The dwarven sixty-nine. Tabletop version.

Bloody brilliant.


	10. Merrill

_Asha’bor’assan, na sa’lath._ *

That’s what she’d said to him. And Varric had shaken his head, puzzled by her sudden burst of Dalish. But he had been smiling anyway as he tightened the sash on his robe to make sure it stayed _just so_. Meanwhile, Bianca had been adjusting the cuffs on the tunic she wore, which was one of Varric’s. She had not yet located a suitable pair of his trousers, but the tunic hung just low enough to offer her lady parts a modicum of modesty.

Judging by the appreciative stream of vulgar commentary issuing from Isabela’s lips, it was pretty clear to Merrill that the lovely pirate had walked in on something very naughty indeed. That had left Merrill wondering exactly what variety of naughtiness had taken place and why it couldn’t have persisted just a bit longer so that she herself could have borne witness. Merrill had also been pondering the atypical form that Varric’s crossbow had—for some reason—decided to embody. And because every last morsel of the adorably serious little elf mage’s curiosity had been devoured by these considerations, she had completely forgotten the very important reason that she’d shown up to visit Varric in the first place.

What a peculiar morning it had been. And the afternoon was shaping up to match it, strange for strange.

Once again, she held up the sketch she’d made, but it didn’t seem to be helping. And Merrill couldn’t figure out the problem. The clothier had only needed one quick look at Merrill’s drawing before he’d ducked behind his stall to pry open a crate that held very nice gowns, tunics, and trousers, all suitable for a dwarven woman of Bianca’s build. Isabela had hummed in satisfaction before selecting all the most revealing outfits and paying for them with a few sovereigns from Varric’s coin purse, which he’d given them for the job. Even the armorer had been glad to refer to Merrill’s drawings as he fetched them a decent selection of items, all fit for a busty, roguish dwarf.

So what was the matter with this weaponsmith? Was he a bit slow perhaps?

Merrill shifted her weight forward, propelling the leaf of paper closer to the smith’s face. Then she waved it a bit, as if to remind him that she’d gone to all the trouble of sketching this very accurate likeness and he should please refer to it with all due haste.

“Stop it,” he said. “I don’t have one of those.”

Merrill glanced meaningfully at his very nice assortment of tools and implements.

“Look, elf girl,” the smith said, “it won’t work, I’m sorry. Whatever sort of crazy contraption that is, I can’t make one for you. Nor can any smith in all of Thedas. Look,” he added, pointing to her diagram. “Here, here, and here. And then this bit right here.” He proceeded to explain to her all the myriad reasons why her schematic design was physically impossible to follow if one’s goal were actually to assemble a working crossbow.

It didn’t make much sense to Merrill. Bianca had been a working crossbow, after all. So the design couldn’t actually have been impossible. But when she tried to explain all that, the smith simply muttered something about crazy elves who were best when kept in their alienage, not out and about, harassing decent businessfolk who were only trying to make an honest living, for Maker’s sake. He muttered a few indecencies before waving her off in favor of attending to a new set of customers, one of whom happened to be a particularly grumpy looking templar. And that was cue enough for Merrill to take her leave.

She met up with Isabela again on the stairs that led back to Lowtown. The pirate was beaming with pride at having successfully acquired a sleek set of blades that met Bianca’s exact specifications in length, weight, quality, and design. Of course, design hadn’t really mattered much to Bianca, her only guidelines in that regard having been, “Find me something sharp and curvy. You know, like me.” And then she’d winked at them before sending them off on their mission. And while Merrill didn’t doubt for one instant that Bianca really did care about acquiring a new set of clothes and weapons, the elven mage was also fairly certain that Bianca’s other primary motive had been to remove all visitors from the premises.

Hawke used that tactic, too. He came up with tasks for Merrill to perform when he wanted to send her away. In fact, that’s what she’d wanted to talk to Varric about (again) this morning: Hawke and his many other lovers. She already knew what Varric would have told her. The same thing he always did: _Monogamy isn’t for everyone, Daisy. That’s just the way the world works._ Such a grim message, despite its truth. And yet it was always comforting, somehow, to hear it from Varric. She suspected the part that comforted her had more to do with relaxing in the presence of a good friend than it did with hearing any of the depressingly realistic advice he seemed to save especially for her.

And of course she needed friends. She’d been so lonely lately, even more so now that the terrible weight of Marethari’s death pressed upon her day and night. Merrill’s connection to the clan was unalterably severed. (She even had horrible nightmares in which she’d slaughtered them all, stabbing out with killing lightning while Hawke’s cruel blade glinted under a metallic sun and he cut through the bodies of child and elder alike. So much blood. So much screaming.) And now she’d failed Varric in the one simple task she’d been given. It was enough to overwhelm her. She glanced apologetically at Isabela and then sat down on the steps to cry.

What Merrill hadn’t expected was that the pirate’s triumphant smile would disappear in a burst of empathy and concern. Isabela promptly sank to the stone beside the weeping elf and drew Merrill into a warm embrace, all sweat and bosom. But it felt good anyway. And as Isabela purred and cooed in her ridiculous attempt to comfort her ‘sweet kitten,’ Merrill couldn’t help but laugh at the sudden thought of trading one polygamous, hedonist lover for another.

* * *

_* Woman-bow, your one love._


	11. Varric

As a crossbow, Bianca had been treacherous, strong, dependable, and predictable. As a woman, she was three of those things, but definitely not the fourth. After Varric shut the door so fast behind their most recent round of guests he nearly clipped Isabela’s heels on her way out, he turned with a hungry glint in his eyes to advance upon the woman he loved, all the while undoing his robe and letting it fall to the floor behind him. He really wasn’t sure what Bianca would have in store for him next, but he trusted her. He trusted that whatever seductions or delicious tortures she’d dreamed up this time, he would like them a lot. After all, the pussy-licking, cock-sucking business on the table had been a truly inspired initiative.

So while he could venture no specific guess as to what new sequence of delights she had in mind, he was pretty sure she would at least _tell him what they were first_. Before she, say, sidled up to him with a wicked grin and distracted him completely by pulling off her tunic to free those gorgeous dwarven breasts while she sneaked one leg behind him and with a sudden, firm, and decidedly unexpected tap to the back of his knees, she took out his legs from under him. He hadn’t even known what had hit him until he was lying prone on the carpet, pinned beneath her weight and staring up in shock at her dark eyes, gleaming with laughter. She was smiling down at him, broad and satisfied, with the look of a woman who knew she was about to have her way.

With his balls, apparently.

And shit, yeah, they were a really nice pair. He’d always thought so. But from Bianca, this was unusual. Aside from giggling happily and exclaiming over how much she loved to feel them bounce and slap against her flesh as he fucked her from behind, she’d never deemed them worthy of much attention before now—at least, not compared to the worshipful treatment she’d always lavished on his cock, which was, according to Bianca, the “best cock in Thedas,” a point which Varric wasn’t about to dispute. But really, he knew for a fact that before she’d met him, she hadn’t tried nearly enough others to even begin making such lofty claims. And as far as Varric was concerned, that was a good thing. Because as much as Varric knew himself to be an enterprising dwarf, one who could capably handle a lot of crazy shit, he also knew that having a lover with appetites as diverse and insatiable as, say, Hawke or Isabela, would have proven way too high maintenance for his liking.

Bianca was perfect for him and always had been. Just the right ratio of vanilla to kinky. She was it. Ever since he’d met her, he’d taken no other lover. Because deep down—despite the occasional, inevitable wandering thought—he’d wanted no other than her. And now, the woman he loved was moaning and writhing in her pleasure, her face between his legs as she opened her mouth in a series of gently sucking licks, sliding her tongue across the wrinkled skin of his balls. She cupped them, kissed them, rubbed against them with her nose and cheeks. One deep breath later and Bianca, his woman, was sighing with pleasure as she inhaled the particular musk of his scent, which he knew just drove her wild.

“You’re dripping wet, aren’t you?” he asked, growing wild himself at her touch and the sight of her, a woman completely given over to the worship of his cock and balls.

Bianca looked up at him, their two sets of glittering eyes meeting across the length Varric’s muscled torso, fuzzed with hair. He was propped on both elbows now, so as to fully enjoy the view of his naked beauty as she continued her gentle play between his thighs.

“I _am_ wet,” she said, her eyes flicking down to his balls once more. “You do that to me, you know. Always have.”

Varric nodded once, in solemn acknowledgement of that truth combined with a chivalrous bit of thanks for the compliment. Even in their dirtiest moments, he felt such a driving need to honor his woman, to show her, with every breath and every well-paced thrust that she was special to him. Above all others.

But he couldn’t contain the bemused grin any longer. “I’m curious, babe. What’s so special about my balls today?” he asked.

Bianca was silent for what felt like an age. But he could see her thoughts churning and he knew well enough not to push her. She had something to say. Something meaningful, probably. “Varric,” she said, at last breaking free of the active silence of a mind grasping for language to describe the sort of feelings that did not wish to be caught in a prison of words. She looked down as she cupped his balls in her one hand, patted them gently with the other. “Look at this. So beautiful. The part of you that is softest, most delicate and vulnerable, is the same part that most makes you a man. Men are strong. And yet, what makes you a man is your weakness… Does that… It’s just… I just don’t know. I feel overwhelmed by it and I don’t even think I’m making much sense.”

Varric said nothing. He was touched by it, really, not even so much by what she was saying, but by the way of it. Bianca laid her most intimate, trembling, and uncertain thoughts bare before him and, as he well knew, doing so required more—and meant more—than the simple act of stripping free of clothing ever could.

“The other part of it,” she added, “is that, for the first time in years, what’s held in here right now…” She patted his balls again. “…is soon enough going to be inside here instead,” She pulled herself up to a sitting position, her thighs parting as she slid one expert finger between those full, gorgeous labial folds and dipped it into her dripping cunt. “Wonderful man that you are, you’re going to open me with that big, handsome cock of yours that I’ve always loved so well and you’re going to ride me with it till I’m so full of you and so crazed for you that your name on my lips is the only word I can speak or even remember. And then you’re going to fill me with your seed.”

“Yeah,” he said, smiling, impressed, at the way she’d found her words. “I am going to do all that.”


	12. Hawke

Not so hard. Not really.

At least, Orsino was simple enough. Hawke knew just the right trick, too: get the poor blighter talking. Worked every time. Any topic would do, but the best was always Meredith. The first enchanter could go on about her as if sweet Andraste herself slipped him two hot sovereigns every time he uttered the old lady templar’s name. (And that wasn’t _weird_ or anything. No, of course not. No way Orsino had a secret crush on the knight-commander.)

But anyhow, once Orsino got going, all a handsome fellow had to do next was serve up a wisecrack or two about blood mages dancing naked under moonlight and all that. Did the trick every time. Dirty old elf could practically hold court. Which was the idea, wasn’t it? Get him talking long enough and, like as not, good old Orsino would set to pacing. A bit more luck and he’d turn away from the person to whom he was supposedly speaking.

 _Orating_ , more like.

But whatever you called it, no arguing it offered the perfect opportunity for a certain Champion of Kirkwall to pilfer a few letters from off his desk. Easy as that. Task complete.

Gold fucking check mark right there.

Knight-Commander Meredith was a bit of a trick. Sure, she could go on at length about her crazy dead sister if you let her. A handsome fellow might even get her pacing around that stuffy little office. But she did have a knack for seeing straight though even the most carefully crafted bit of bullshit. And who, really, would want to risk getting caught by her? Not any man who placed much value on the little things in life. Like breathing. And not having his testicles removed by a burly gang of sexually frustrated templars.

Best thing was to devise an alternate plan. And since seducing the Tranquil chick—Elsa—had failed miserably (to put it mildly), second best bet was to break into Meredith’s office, ideally when she was out harassing apostates, haranguing the populace, and whatever other pleasures of Kirkwall she most fancied.

Too bad Hawke hadn’t yet figured out how to work a lock pick. Though, Maker knew, he _had_ tried. For years even. But no luck. For some reason it had proven completely fucking impossible for him to learn a skill so apparently simplistic that Isabela could do it drunk with her eyes closed while being fucked by a pair of elves.

(Blighted evangelists had probably put a line in the Chant about it. Some kind of curse or clever hex. _Thou shalt not wield thy big sword_ and _thy lock pick._ But two little swords and lock picks? Oh, yes, by all means. Have at it.)

Right. Well. General incompetence with lock picks notwithstanding, there wasn’t much reason _not_ to fiddle with the door latch. And it was a good thing he did, too. Because of all the dumb luck, the door had been left unlocked. And, easy as pie, Hawke had slipped in, pilfered a letter written in Meredith’s hand, and slipped right out again.

Gold check mark the second. Added to the list.

And wouldn’t the dwarf girl be tickled? Pleased with him, probably. Though he didn’t foresee getting a thank-you-very-much blowjob out of it.

No, it was fairly clear that she wouldn’t ever be won over on an individual basis. Rather, the Varric-Bianca team came together. (Hah! Literally.) So Hawke would have to work on seducing both of them if he ever expected to see results. Though Hawke knew—he really _knew_ —that the last thing he needed at the moment was more trouble when it came to matters of the loins, that pair of dwarves was just so damned irresistible. Frankly, he couldn’t help himself. And besides, wouldn’t it just take his mind off all his other troubles if he had a new conquest to keep him occupied?

Of course it would.

With that thought in the forefront of his brilliant mind, it occurred to him. Perhaps he could offer Bianca more than just a pair of letters. There was other information that might interest her, yeah?

Hawke popped his head into Orsino’s office again on the way out.

“First Enchanter, can you spare a moment of your precious time for a question?” No need to wait for an answer. Not really. Hawke continued with barely a pause for breath. “Have you ever heard of any spell or enchantment that can turn a person into an inanimate object? Or, perhaps, more like a machine?”

Oh, no, of course Orsino hadn’t ever heard of such a thing.

Though that didn’t bloody stop him from speculating as to what Knight-Commander Meredith’s opinion of such magic might be. _Definitely_ not weird or anything.


End file.
